Meredith O'Brien: Meeting puppy criteria

Monday

Aug 31, 2009 at 12:01 AMAug 31, 2009 at 12:05 PM

This whole getting a family dog thing didn’t quite work out like I imagined it would. Adopting a dog has, like parenting, become a lot more complicated than it used to be. You need a lot of patience, a fierce sense of humor and friends who’ll tell dog shelters that you’re not an ax murderer.

Meredith O'Brien

This whole getting a family dog thing didn’t quite work out like I imagined it would. Adopting a dog has, like parenting, become a lot more complicated than it used to be. You need a lot of patience, a fierce sense of humor and friends who’ll tell dog shelters that you’re not an ax murderer.

Our family decided to get a puppy in December after our beloved, 18-year-old cat Plato died. However, the search for the right pooch didn’t really begin until April when we checked a book about dogs from the library and everybody started selecting favored breeds.

Our 8-year-old declared that he wanted a pit bull. To which I simply laughed, “No way, kid.” Then he went to his backup: A West Highland terrier, like in the McDuff books by Rosemary Wells. That sounded reasonable until I read that they’re super-stubborn; hard-headedness already abounds in our household.

Our 11-year-old son didn’t want a dog, but said if we had to have one, he wanted a golden retriever, a lovely breed but too big for me. We decided to try to find a puppy who’d be a small-to-medium-sized dog with a cuddly temperament (i.e. -- not yappy, jumpy).

It wasn’t until we started looking at a Web site with various shelter listings for dogs that we realized, since we weren’t going to a pet store or to a breeder for a specific kind of dog, this was going to be a bit more complicated. Many of the puppies available at local shelters weren’t what we were looking for, with older or larger dogs being the most plentiful. Then we spotted Tess, a mutt cutie. All three kids plus the husband gave the thumbs upon reading her bio, so I filed our application while humming the Dropkick Murphys’ “Tessie.”

It was then I learned that many shelters house dogs in foster homes – not one center – and you have to be pre-approved for adoption before you can meet the pup. The approval hinges on the completion of a sometimes extensive application.

Several of the questions made me feel like they were trying to discern if I was gleefully rubbing my hands together in anticipation of making a “101 Dalmatians” coat. Or worse. Who, for example, would answer “No” to an application question about whether you’d allow a dog to go outside to the bathroom if he had to urinate? What, are you going to say, “Nah, I’d laugh and point and watch him squirm”?

Some holistic shelters (who knew?) wanted to assess our philosophical viewpoints on a range of issues like whether we’d buy organic dog food and if we’d force our pup to make us martinis with an olive garnish during cocktail hour.

A few shelters required photos of our home and yard included with our application, apparently to establish that we weren’t designating a barbecue pit as a dog pen and that there weren’t scythes mounted on our walls. In addition to providing info on why any of your previous pets died – as well as the vet’s number -- you also have to ask friends for referrals so they’ll say you wouldn’t be a knuckleheaded pet parent who’d suddenly take off for Vegas without first showing the pup how to use the cable remote.

In the case of Tess, once our application was approved we were told she’d already been adopted. Still reeling with disappointment, we found an area shelter listing for golden retriever-daschund puppies. (I don’t want to envision how that particular mix was accomplished.)

I completed an application, promised I wouldn’t make the puppy watch “Jon & Kate Plus (or Minus) 8” and got confirmation that the application had been received. Then I heard ... nada. The listing was removed from the shelter’s Web site days later. An inquiry to a West Highland terrier breeder went unanswered.

We kicked it old school and visited three shelters. Our family’s excitement level increased when, at one shelter, we became interested in a couple of adorable canines in the puppy area, only to be nonchalantly informed, “Oh, they’ve all been adopted already.”

The final straw was when I saw a wheaten terrier pup who seemed like the perfect family dog. After researching the breed and getting a familial thumbs-up, I was filling out that application when I discovered that we’d have to pay for and agree to adopt him without meeting him because he’d only be shipped to New England after he was adopted. That was a deal breaker.

Weeks later, we saw a listing for sweet-beyond-words wheaten terrier/Havanese puppies. And, even though they were in a New York shelter, we decided to try to adopt them. Would the shelter allow Red Sox fans – we brought a Sox dog collar with us -- to adopt an Empire State pup, or would our baseball loyalty be considered a character flaw?

After our application approval, we drove for hours with crossed fingers and found ourselves making the tough decision between 3-month-old puppy brothers, choosing a playful tan-and-black fur-ball who looks like he dipped his mouth into black ink.

On the way home, a debating ensued about his name. I pitched Fenway but the boys hated it and advanced alternatives like Teddy (for Ted Williams), Buddy or Max.

Consensus formed around Max and, after months of angst – voila! -- we had ourselves a fuzzy addition to our nutty family. As Max – who’d never before slept in a crate or walked on a leash – howls through the evenings and we’ve busted out the baby gates and commenced housetraining, I feel like a new mom again, although I keep wondering how long it’ll be before I can teach Max how to fetch me a martini.

Columnist Meredith O’Brien blogs about parenting at the Picket Fence Post (wickedlocalparents.com/picketfencepost) and about pop culture at Suburban Mom (suburbanmomnotes.blogspot.com). Follow her on Twitter: MeredithOBrien.